


Orchids or Roses?

by aceholmes



Series: Johnlock Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceholmes/pseuds/aceholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>221b is under attack from Sherlock's wedding hysteria. John can't believe he's marrying the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orchids or Roses?

**Author's Note:**

> A combination of some of my favourite things resulted in this:  
> \- johnlock wedding stuff  
> \- writing in the wee hours when everything's silent  
> \- over the top metaphors  
> Yes, I know my writing's pretentious. I am aware.  
> I also don't know anything about flowers. Or weddings.  
> Oh and yeah, review are nice. Even just one word. Constructive criticism and all that.

'Right. So, we're going for roses?'

John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, peering down at the ocean of white and pastel sheets of paper that his fiancé had spread out before him. He sat on the floor, his lanky legs crossed beneath him, with his silky dressing down spreading out around him like his own bizarre wedding dress.

'I'm not sure. Have you considered lilies?'

'Lil-lilies, Sherlock?' John sank down into the balls of his feet so that he was on the same level as Sherlock, as if perhaps the angle he was looking at the sheets was somehow making him more interested in flowers than, in John's opinion at least, anybody but florists and bees should be.

'Yes, lilies. Do you not like them? Roses are a bit cliché.'

Picking up a baby pink print out of a floristry website, he frowned. The smell off flowers still hung in the air from when Sherlock had decided to buy twelve different bouquets of different flowers, and then monitor how they aged over a twenty-four period. He'd sat in one singular spot only for the entire time, examining the petals with the same furious intensity that he examined a dead body with. Now the flat smelt of sherbet lemons and overly aggressive ladies' perfume, and the lingering scent of the pollen burnt like a brewing sneeze in John's nose.

'Weddings are supposed to be cliché, aren't they?'

'Yes, yes you're right-'

'Hang on, say that again.'

'You heard me.'

'Yeah, yeah. I did hear you; that's why I'm concerned. Did you drug my tea again?' 'Don't be ridiculous.' he scoffed. 'I can't do that sort of thing now we're engaged. It would be immoral.'

'You shouldn't do that sort of thing anyway.'

Ignoring John, Sherlock dove into the paper, rummaging through the mountains of leaflets and website screenshots and God knows what else. The noise of his rustling fluctuated across the flat, filling it with a sort of odd intensity, like the static electricity that haunted the air during a lightening storm.

Sherlock's erratic behaviour had only been getting worse. His usual grotesque experiments had given way to fits of spontaneous origami and, perhaps worst of all, late night visits to appalling wedding websites- hence the frankly alarming quantity of screenshots. John had found himself alone in bed one morning, which was perfectly normal. He'd been more shocked, in fact, to find Sherlock downstairs with Mrs Hudson watching some sort of wedding programme, with tea in one hand and a notebook (complete with notes) in the other.

'Sherlock.' John sighed, finally standing up. His knees complained like bitter old men as his legs straightened.

Jesus, he really wasn't as young as he'd like to be. Although, if he were much younger, he wouldn't be engaged to Sherlock Holmes yet. Creaky limbs were definitely worth that. His fiancé ignored him, pulling out a battered leaflet from somewhere amongst the millions of others.

'They have orchids here.' he murmured, flipping the leaflet over to look at both sides. 'Though they're clearly lacking in the marketing and advertising departments.'

'Didn't we have a case once where you deduced the murderer by their collection of orchids and orchid themed trinkets?'

He let the shiny paper flutter back down to the floor.

'The pillowcases.'

'Oh, God. Not the pillowcases.' John shivered. 'Listen, love. We need to talk.'

Sherlock's face snapped up, his eyes like blue tinted glass casing a roaring fire.

'What about?'

'You, Sherlock. We need to talk about you.'

'What about me?' he snapped, pouting. 'What am I doing wrong?'

'You're not doing anything wrong.'

'What am I doing, then?'

'It's just, Jesus Christ, it's this.' John gestured to the mess around him. Sherlock sat on his knees looking up at him like a child surrounded by clusters upon clusters of his own toys.

'Do you want me to tidy up?'

'No, it's not that. You and I both know that I'll be the one tidying this up. It's, well, why are you doing this?'

'Why am I planning our wedding? Because, apparently, we can't just turn up at the registrar on the way back from a case one day.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it.'

'You mean the flowers?'

'Sherlock, I mean _this_! The manic origami and lilies and watching telly with Mrs Hudson! I could understand it with... with Mary, because you were scared about us. But this I don't understand. You _know_ that I want to marry you; that I really couldn't care less about the flowers or the colour of the suits or where everybody sits. So why do you?'

'You think it's weird that I want our wedding to be perfect?'

John crouched down again, leaning in close and stroking Sherlock's curls. Ever since he'd moved in with the man, he'd always been fascinated by the mop of unruly hair that crowned Sherlock's head. Even during those two years, when his nightmares had been riddled with an abundance of variations of the fall, he could remember the feel of his hair under his wrist when he'd brushed it feeling his pulse.

'Of course I don't think that's weird. I want it to be perfect, too. But all this obsession; it's not like you to be so interested in these sorts of things.'

Sherlock didn't offer any kind of explanation, letting the silence cloak their crouching figures.

'Sherlock?'

The curls shifted out from beneath John's fingers. Sherlock's frantic body shifted forward and his hands dove back into the piles of papers.

'I don't think we'll go with orchids. They're too exotic for the English rose thing we've already got-' John hadn't wanted silence, but he hadn't wanted _this_ again.

'Sherlock!'

He rolled back into his knees, drooping his head down so that John couldn't see his face.

'I'm just making sure it's real.'

Wobbling on his feet in his crouched position, John sunk down so that he was sitting on his shins. His stomach churned at the familiarity of Sherlock's tone; the broken tone that was only ever reserved for when he was at his most vulnerable.

'Hey, of course it's real.' he cooed, rubbing his back. 'Why wouldn't it be real?'

'It's nothing but sentimental rubbish, John. I'm not going to indulge you with it.'

'Weddings always _are_ sentimental rubbish. Have you ever been to a wedding that wasn't?' 

'Well considering the only wedding I can remember going to was yours, no...'

'Don't change the subject.'

Sherlock sighed. 'The more I plan it, the more solid it seems; the harder it is for you to pull out.' 

'What?'

'In case you've been blinded by what many people may call our 'honeymoon stage', you'll have undoubtedly noticed that I am not exactly... marriage material.' 

'So after all this time, all the things we've been through, you still don't think you're good enough to marry me?'

He looked up, his eyes so large, so shattered. John's stomach twisted again.

'Well...'

'Jesus, Sherlock. Don't you ever think that.'

'Why?' His chin rose in defiance, his brow and lips sticking out as he pouted.

'Because it's not true! I love you, Sherlock Holmes, faults and everything. Of course you're good enough for me, if I'm good enough for you.'

A careful smile played on the detective's lips. 'And I love you the same way. You are an awful cook, though. Will I have to put up with that?'

John mirrored the grin. 'Every day of your bloody life.'

'Oh, God. Take the ring back, right now.' 

'Shut up.' he gasped, clutching his ring hand to his chest. 'You don't even try to cook!'

'Neither do you. When was the last time we didn't get a takeaway?'

'Last night!' he protested, rising to his feet.

'We went to Angelo's last night!'

John rolled his eyes, pushing his way to the kitchen. 'See? I'm just as flawed as you are. We all are.'

'Are you making tea?'

'I wasn't, no. Do you want me to put the kettle on?'

Sherlock just snorted in reply. 'I suppose the flowers don't really matter.'

'Not really.'

The kettle gurgled into life, a homely purr like that of an affectionate childhood cat; similar in both sound and comfort. John smiled to himself, pulling out the first two cleanish mugs he could find that were still capable of functioning as mugs. He couldn't hear the rustling Sherlock was making, but he could see it happening.

'I'll tell you absolutely does matter, though,' his fiancé called over the kettle's rumbling.

'And what's that?' he sighed, turning to face him. Sherlock's lips were a grim line, his eyebrows bunched together in a heavy frown. In his hand was a seating plan, drawn with meticulous precision by Holmes himself.

'I am _not_ sitting anywhere near Mycroft. All of this is going to have to change.'

John shook his head, turning back to make their tea. Well, Sherlock was always going to be an obsessive; from crimes to weddings, to science and bees.

And of course, John thought, he wouldn't have him any other way.


End file.
